Pressure Points
by BiJane
Summary: Magnussen pays a visit to another of Sherlock's pressure points. Irene is far from as vulnerable as his usual targets, though.


**Magnussen blew me away as a villain. As such, couldn't resist trying my hand at writing him: and what better setting than confronting someone like Irene?  
Set before His Last Vow, spoilers for the episode. **

Someone was in her apartment. It really was quite obvious; they hadn't bothered to hide it. Door ajar, coat hung up (with her own dropped on the floor), and whoever it was clearly hadn't bothered to wipe their feet. Indeed, they seem to have gone out of their way to walk through dirt on the way in.

Following the streak of black, Irene Adler walked to her front room. A man she recognized sat by the table, his back to her. My, he was confident, wasn't he?

"Ms Adler," Charles Augustus Magnusson spoke, without turning. "Take a seat. Make yourself at home."

This was her home. At least, for now. Still, she didn't rise to it; that was his game. Bait you, see if you jumped. She'd heard him compared to a shark; sniffing the waters in search of fish. To her, he'd always seemed more like the man with the rod. If you went for it, he pulled you up and ate you for dinner.

He was drinking from a wine glass. One of hers; and one of her expensive ones. Crystal glass she'd accumulated in her travels, some palace or other. She noted one hadn't been left for her.

"You've heard of me," Irene said, sitting opposite him. Impassive. She met his eyes as he sipped from her glass.

"I've heard of everyone," Magnusson said. "Everyone of interest, I should say."

"And why would I interest you?" Irene spoke.

Start from a position of weakness. Let them think you were uncertain, clueless. Arrogance was always their weakness, as it had been with Sherlock. As it had been with her, unfortunately. She'd learned.

In the instants before he spoke again, she was thinking. He knew she lived, and evidently where she was. She hadn't fallen off his radar: or, if she had, he'd quickly found her again. Something she'd have to fix.

Regardless, he was here. He had some reason to speak with her, rather than just report her. Well, reporting wasn't his style, not when he couldn't get anything from it.

So slowly, Magnusson put the wine glass down: onto the glass table, leaving a smear.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, as though that were enough. Still, he continued: "He has two notable pressure points. One you know, army doctor, few connections. The other, is you."

Irene leaned forwards. She smiled, the crimson of her lipstick making it seem especially devilish.

"And tell me, Mr Magnusson," she spoke, "What would you say are my 'pressure points'?"

"I like to make sure each pressure point is easily accessible," Magnusson continued, as though he hadn't heard her. "The army doctor has a fiancée, bad girl, and a sister. They're easy. And then we come to you: now, you haven't exactly had a clear history, have you?"

He reached forward, to sip his wine once more. Irene remained silent, schooling her expression and remaining outwardly unruffled.

Inwardly, her reaction was the same as anyone's when confronted by a predator. Wariness. Fight or flight.

"Kate," Magnusson said, idly.

Oh, was that meant to affect her? "You'll have to be more specific," Irene said, allowing herself another smile. "I've known many Kates."

"You know which ones," Magnusson said, as though bored. "Two in particular."

"Inaccessible to you," Irene said, casually.

"No one is inaccessible," Magnusson said.

"My clients are," Irene said. "They know what they get into. I gather insurance. Photos."

"You imagine you're the only one with photos?"

"I doubt it," Irene said. "The fact remains, I have them. Pressure points are rather important in my line of work. You push one way, I push the other: how do you imagine they'll jump?"

Magnusson raised his legs, and crossed them, resting them on the table and scuffing the glass. Irene didn't so much as blink.

"The trouble with blackmail," she spoke again, "Once you've used your pull, you've got nothing else. If you want, we could go through all my clients. You publish what you have, and I release the photos, and we could ruin their lives in turn, for no purpose. That would be careless, though. You don't want to seem like you have a vendetta. You might end up with a pressure point yourself."

All it would take was a journalist with nothing to lose, or someone, anyone who'd been too minor for Magnusson to bother with. They'd spread word of Magnusson's vendetta, he'd lose credibility: and what use was blackmail if no one would believe you when you spread the truth?

He was smarter than that.

If he was at all ruffled, Magnusson didn't show it. He nodded, simply, accepting the point.

"Your clients are not your pressure point" he said. "However-"

"Do tell, Mr Magnusson," Irene said. "What do you have, that I could possibly be ashamed of?"

It wasn't a question, so much as a challenge. She smiled again, wetting her lips slightly, relishing the anticipation.

"Laura Lyons."

A client. A rather unfortunate one, for that matter; medical issues she hadn't disclosed, and she'd died while under Irene's… care. A dangerous truth, after all; Irene could lose customers.

Irene's eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. She'd kept that quiet. She'd had an understanding with the police officer in charge of that case; it was accidental after all, no need to press charges. Also, every need to hush it up. She'd still been hiding when that had occurred. It was far from common knowledge.

"As I said," Magnusson spoke, "Everyone has their pressure point."

Time to stop playing. Irene almost laughed at herself; she'd chided him for arrogance, and done the same herself. Again. She'd underestimated him, toyed with him as she loved doing. And he had some material that might be a genuine problem. Well then, best tidy that up.

"You're talking to a dead woman," Irene said, the playful edge to her voice vanishing. "My name isn't Irene Adler, here. Comes with faking my death."

"And how would Mycroft Holmes feel about that?" Magnusson said.

Another name drop; another problem arising. It was the only reason Magnusson was allowed to continue operating; he picked up more people than MI6 and the like had any hope of knowing about. If any of them crossed him, he could leave a tip that was officially anonymous, but all the higher-ups knew came from him.

He made himself invaluable, irreplaceable: and at the same time, a threat.

He revealed she was alive, he revealed her current address. She could flee, yes, but they could catch up, especially with his aid, and his limitless network keeping an eye out for her. Most, if not all, of her contacts were probably already in his pocket.

No more games then. Forget subtlety; misdirection and fun, wordplay was all very well. The pen might be mightier than the sword, but that didn't make the sword useless.

Irene leant back.

"Shall I tell you how this is going to go?" Irene Adler spoke, smiling.

The confidence in her voice seemed, for the first time, to unnerve Magnusson.

"I'm in contact with all the good assassins, I know people within a fair few mafias, and I have photos of at least one person in every royal or politically important family. Don't doubt for a second that I have just as much power as you. It only takes one text. Do what I say, or they leak. We could do this properly, with police and politics, or cloak-and-dagger. I've got people to fulfil both roles."

Magnusson opened his mouth to speak. Irene interrupted. She wouldn't feign weakness any more.

"I don't doubt you have… contacts. People whose pressure points you've exploited. No doubt we share a lot. All I need is one figure who's slipped past you, and the advantage is mine. I don't doubt you could bring me down: but I promise you, if you try, I won't be the only one to fall."

That shut him up. Irene smiled again, properly this time. Pleasure, as opposed to amusement.

"So, how will this go?" Irene echoed her earlier statement. "You're going to stand. You're going to turn around, and you're going to leave. You'll shut the door behind you, you won't slam it, you won't leave it ajar; you will close it simply, you will leave, and you will not come back, nor will you print a word about me or any of my clients. Is that clear?"

Not choosing to use her power, didn't mean she had none. Hopefully he'd understand that: she met his eyes, and didn't blink.

Without a word, Magnusson withdrew his feet from the table, and stood up. He turned, he walked out the room, taking his coat off the hanger. He put his on, and straightened it; and lifted Irene's up, to put it back on the hanger. He turned again, now facing the front door, and walked towards it.

"Good day, Mr Magnusson," Irene called after him, as she heard the door lightly click shut.

A brief smile. Then, frowning, she pulled her phone out, and opened the address book.

Any threat to her was quite cleanly dealt with. No doubt he'd try and track down all her clients, now; but she knew his type. He liked certainty. He wouldn't rest until he knew for a fact he had all her clients in his pocket: she wished him luck with that. Some were like her: unashamed of anything they did. Others still were like him, uncaring of anyone else.

No pressure points to exploit. For her either, but Magnusson wasn't the type to risk that.

Still, it galled her to let someone like him get away. She scrolled through her address book, looking up her old contacts (saved by initials, of course. Wouldn't do to have them be recognized). Who was in London?

Irene clicked an 'AGRA'.

"Hello?" she said, and spoke her name. Then, she waited for the killer on the other end to respond. "Mary now, is it? There's a man in London. Charles Augustus Magnusson. He knows about you." Without a doubt, he would.

'Mary' was on it then. Irene smiled, and lowered her phone. She had pressure points, no doubt. Irene knew a few of them herself. They were only any use when Magnusson knew the threat was coming.

He was one shot away from being nobody's problem.

And therein was Magnusson's weakness. His web of connections had become a gordian knot, unfathomably complex: but all it needed was one swift, sharp stroke, and it would all fall away.

The Woman stood, lifting the wine glass from the table, wiping the smear away with a cloth, and washed it by hand. A minute later, she cleaned the carpet. A minute after that, and there was no reminder of Magnusson's visit left.


End file.
